packing up into one corner
and crying tears
away for no one to see.
no one to witness.
that is life, packing.
packing your plans into a suitcase
and spreading them around
the world.
packing in the emotions
that maybe this world won't want to see.
packing up all the beautiful memories
for when they leave.
packing away the things you are afraid to admit,
or the hobbies one may find unattractive.
but one time, one word, one day.
a day for unpacking.
all the words and tears,
memories, emotions
and feelings so tightly packed away.
unboxed, for the world.

He doesn't burn photographs
He doesn't join therapy sessions
He doesn't smoke too many cigarettes
Nor he drown himself into alcohol
He scratches his wounds daily
And never let them heal
He doesn't try to get rid of the pain
Instead he let it grow on him
He waters the seed of sorrow with his tears
He feeds it with the manure of old memories
He takes it to sleep with him
And nurtures it in himself
Till the moment when every single drop of his blood gets replaced by this pain
Until his fragile heart can bear no more
And his soul starts overflowing with emotions
That's when he dip his pen into this pain
And empty his heart on a piece of paper
He bares his soul for us to feel
He creates poetry that the world would cherish for centuries to come

ode to you,
your walk.
talk.
laugh
smile.
secrets.
there's not much I don't like about you.
you talk with a raspy after tone,
your hair is not greasy
but shiny.
your love is well-cherished.
your touch is well-remembered.
un-forgettable.
your smile.
its overwhelming.
i forget how to think,
when you look at me.
ode  to you.
even though,
you crushed my heart
with your foot,
never saying you loved me.

you are my vampire.
the blood that falls off,
drips from the slits on my wrist
or cuts on my thighs.
you cause them.
you drive your sharp teeth into me,
and level marks.
my heart with puncture wounds.
your vangs are the
nightmare
of my days.

scissors are for paper?
That's a toddler's favor.
Mine is scissors, a razor.
and these lines, my scars.
on the paper, my arms.

donnt mention my thighs,
but see thats 'different' right?
its not. I'm still cutting arent I?
and even with the doors closed they still know.
for it reeks of blood dripping off my leg
thirsty for a vampire's vang.
you can check me all day
but you'll never see the dark
inside or me.
for I cut it out so no one will see,
so that ill just be happy.